


Grief So Thick I Can't Breathe

by ira_fae



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Panic Attacks, Sort of with a happy ending, Vomit Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ira_fae/pseuds/ira_fae
Summary: Stiles grieves the loss of his mother and it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Grief So Thick I Can't Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> come with me as i explore grief through the lens of stiles! claudia didn't die when stiles was younger, he's probably a junior in this. don't ask me what claudia died of in this au, just know it wasn't dementia
> 
> also, don't listen to supermarket flowers by ed sheeran while reading this unless you want to be killed by angst

Stiles can’t move. He hasn’t moved in forty-five minutes. He just stares at the floor, the ugly linoleum blurred by his tears. Chunks of the night replay in his head. Over and over and over again. 

The nurse’s face as she delivered the news. 

Scott holding his mom as she cried. 

The sound of his dad sobbing softly. 

It’s not fucking fair. His head aches and his throat is tight. None of the noise of the hospital around him penetrates through the haze that has settled around him. Everything is muffled. It feels fake. 

Part of him wants to scream. Wants to throw things. Wants to shatter something. Wants to bash something in with a baseball bat. Wants to tear something apart. 

But he can’t move. 

None of it would help. Nothing will take away the hollow ache that’s formed in his chest. Nothing is going to bring his mother back. Nothing is going to make her be in the bleachers at his lacrosse games. Nothing is going to make her stand in the kitchen again, humming off-key to a song on the radio, cooking dinner. Nothing is going to make her be able to hug Stiles again. 

Stiles still wants to scream. But another part of him wants to cry. Wants to curl up into a tiny ball and just sob. Wants to get into bed and never leave. Wants to be wrapped up in his father’s arms. Wants to cry until he just fucking can’t anymore. 

-

At some point, Dad sits down next to Stiles. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask questions or offer useless platitudes. He just puts his hand on Stiles’ back. And they sit there in silence for a while. 

At some point, Stiles finally moves. He turns his face into his Dad’s chest and sobs. It’s an ugly noise, one that wracks his whole body. But the floodgates have opened and he just can’t stop crying. He clings to his father, fingers gripping his uniform. 

At some point, his Dad starts crying with him. Soft little sounds that wrench more sobs out of Stiles. 

At some point, Melissa McCall stands in front of them. She’s saying nonsense words to Dad. Stiles had no idea what she’s saying. He’s still sobbing. Dry sobs at this point, wheezing as he cries. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles thinks of Scott and his asthma. 

At some point, Stiles is led to a vehicle. He vaguely registers Scott, Melissa, and Dad all talking around him, but everything still sounds so muffled. Scott is leading him to the Jeep, he realizes. Scott is helping him into the passenger seat. Scott is climbing into the driver’s seat, making a comment about how he’ll be careful of second gear. Stiles doesn’t respond to any of it. He stares, unseeing, into the inky black night, wondering what they’ve done with his mother’s body. 

At some point, they arrive at the house. Scott helps Stiles out of the Jeep, carefully leads him into the house, where Dad stands, waiting. Scott and Dad exchange words, none of which Stiles registers. And then Dad is taking Stiles upstairs. They’re in Stiles’ bedroom and Dad is gently encouraging Stiles to change into pajamas. Then Stiles is in bed, Dad is pulling the covers over him and Stiles feels like he’s four. Except that when he was four it would have been Mom pulling the covers over him smiling sweetly as she tucked him. Stiles wheezes as Dad tries to leave, grabbing his wrist. 

At some point, Dad climbs into Stiles’ bed. Stiles had sobbed the entire time he was gone. He’d insisted that he was coming back, that he just needed to change, to brush his teeth. But the whole in Stiles’ chest was ripped to twice it’s original size in the time Dad was gone. But he’s back, his breathing gradually slowing as he falls asleep. Stiles cries until he can’t stay awake anymore. 

-

The first thing used as a shower were waterfalls. The falling water allowed a bather to be rinsed completely clean. It was more efficient than bathing in a basin. There is evidence of “shower rooms” in early upper class Egyptian and Mesopotamian societies. But these showers were performed by servants carrying water into the rooms and washing whoever they were attending. The first people to have showers that vaguely resemble modern showers were the ancient Greeks, as their aqueduct systems allowed water to be pumped into the rooms rather than carried by hand. The first mechanical shower, operated by a hand pump, was patented in England in 1767 by William Feetham. It is the first mechanism that most closely resembles the modern shower. 

Knowing all of this would normally be exactly the sort of thing Stiles would be ecstatic over. But standing under his own  _ modern, fancy _ showerhead, forehead against the wall, water raining down over him… He just can’t bring himself to care. 

Every shaky breath out of his mouth blows water droplets against the shower wall. He can feel the water running over his eyelids. He has a sort of sense of drowning. But he knows it has absolutely nothing to do with the water pounding down around him. The shower is going cold and Stiles knows he needs to get out. But again, he just can’t bring himself to care. 

He feels nauseous. Not that his body would be courteous enough to actually vomit to try and dispel the feeling. Oh, no. This is all psychosomatic. And he hates that he knows that too? What does all this fucking knowledge do for him? Why did he think it all mattered so fucking much?! Stiles briefly contemplates making himself throw up to see if that would fucking help. He idly dismisses the thought.  _ No,  _ he thinks cynically,  _ nothing is gonna help this shitshow. _

-

Stiles is standing in the kitchen, staring vaguely at the pot of water that seems like it’s never going to boil when there’s a knock at the door. He doesn’t move. Dad will get it. And he does, of course. Stiles might spend most of his life in the shower, staring blankly at the walls, or in the kitchen… staring blankly at the food he’s cooking. But Dad spends most of his life, staring blankly at TV shows he’s clearly not watching. 

Bits of conversation float into the kitchen. If Stiles is hearing correctly it’s their neighbor. Mrs… Uh, fuck… Mrs. Roth? No, that can’t be right. Mrs. Row? 

“Ah, we appreciate it… but uh, Stiles likes cooking. It’s one of the few things I can get him to do nowadays so…” Stiles bristles at his Dad’s comment. He does plenty of things other than cook. Like… Like… 

Well, it’s not like he needs to go around blabbing that to other people. 

There’s more conversation. Mrs. Roll? No. 

“Thank you, Melissa. I appreciate it.” 

Mrs. McCall? Stiles scoffs, glaring at the pot of still not boiling water. How did he not recognize Mrs. McCall’s voice? How long has he known Scott and his family?  _ Jesus. _

Dad comes into the kitchen bearing another container of food. 

“Melissa brought broccoli casserole.” He sets the container down next to the stove and Stiles sighs heavily. 

“We’ll eat that, I guess. Because this pot of water is never going to  _ fucking boil.” _ Stiles snaps. He picks up the pot and drops it into the sink with a little more force than necessary. He watches water slosh up over the side of the pot and onto the counter. 

“Stiles,” Dad says softly. He sounds weary and Stiles feels guilty. He picks up a towel and lays it over the water, turning to his dad with a frown.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He moves to the cabinet where they keep the plates. 

“Stiles, you didn’t even turn the stove on,” Dad says softly. Stiles turns, looking at the little knobs. And, well fuck, he didn’t. 

Stiles puts a hand on his face, drawing in a shaky breath. No, he will not cry over this. He won’t! But he hears a soft sigh from Dad and that breaks him. He breaks down, little, shuddery sobs escaping him. He grabs onto the counter for support, shaking where he stands. And then Dad is wrapping his arms around Stiles, pulling Stiles’ toward him. 

“So- sorry,” Stiles sobs into his chest. 

“It’s okay,” Dad whispers into the top of his head, “it’s okay, bud.” 

-

Stiles isn’t sure what Scott is talking about. The Jeep is parked outside the little burger joint near the school and Scott is scarfing down a second thing of fries. Stiles is still picking at his first. He’s eaten probably four fries. Scott, on the other hand, has consumed two things of fries, a chocolate milkshake, a large soda, and a burger. 

It sort of makes Stiles want to throw up. 

But he’s here to hang out with his best friend. He’s here to have fun. So, he tries to tune back into what Scott is saying. But no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he focuses on the way Scott’s mouth is moving, he just can’t make sense of what he’s saying. 

Scott seems fine with taking over Stiles’ roll of filling the silence with endless chatter. He hasn’t stopped talking since Stiles picked him up. At first, it sort of annoyed Stiles. For all of ten minutes. But now he likes it. Scott’s voice is familiar and comforting. Stiles can’t really follow Scott’s never-ending train of speech, but it’s just nice to hear his voice. 

Scott starts picking fries out of Stiles’ box and Stiles hands the thing over. 

“Thanks, man!” is something that Scott says. But it’s the only thing that Stiles catches the whole night. 

Scott keeps up his stream of chatter all the way to his house. And then he stops. Stiles’ ears perk up, straining in the silence. 

“If you ever wanna talk… You know I’ll listen.” Scott says softly. He doesn’t give Stiles time to reply. He just hops out of the Jeep and bounds into his house. Stiles drives a full block away before he lets himself park the Jeep and break down crying. 

-

It’s been four months and six days. Four months and six days of grief. Four months and six days of people treating Stiles like he’s something fragile. And Stiles is about to lose his goddamned mind. 

-

“Just come out here and get in my fucking Jeep, Scott!” Stiles snaps down the phone. There’s silence and then the line goes dead. If Scott isn’t out here in three minutes, Stiles is leaving and is going to enact this plan by himself. But, thank every fucking deity, Scott slips out the front door and hurries down the lawn. Once he’s safely in his seat, all buckled in, he turns to Stiles. 

“Can you at least tell me what we’re doing?” 

Stiles scoffs and puts the Jeep into drive. He ignores Scott’s further questioning and eventually, Scott gets the idea and shuts up. 

The drive takes longer than Stiles would’ve liked. He itches to get out of the Jeep, the scream into the great unknown. But first, he has to get away from civilization. 

And he has done some planning, thank you very little, Scott Mccall. There are sleeping bags and a tent in the back of his Jeep. There are also two flashlights. And, Stiles’ favorite part, a large bottle of whiskey that he stole from his dad. 

Finally, Stiles pulls the Jeep off the road and onto the little path. He stops there, knowing that it’ll be enough. He did enough damn research. He gets out of the Jeep, slamming the door. Scott hurries after him. He comes around to the back of the Jeep to find Stiles unloading the supplies. 

“What are we  _ doing,  _ Stiles?”

Stiles heaves a frustrated sigh. “We’re  _ camping,  _ Scott! The great outdoors!” Stiles shoves the tent into Scott’s arms. He piles on the flashlights. 

“I’m fine with camping but-” 

“I just wanted to get away, Scott! Just be a good best friend and help me camp!” Stiles snaps. It comes out a little angrier than he intended. Scott huffs. Stiles pulls out the sleeping bags and bottle whiskey. He sets them on the ground. 

“Stiles, you know that I’ve been trying. Man, I- I care about you. And you’re freaking me out, okay? I’ll camp with you but- like, can we talk about any of this?”

“No,” Stiles slams the trunk of the Jeep shut. Scott sighs again. 

“Dude, come on! You’ve gone from the most talkative person in the world to practically silent. We’re all worried about you. Me, my mom, your dad, our friends.”

Stiles picks up the sleeping bags and the bottle of whiskey and starts to move past the Jeep. Scott persists.

“This whole thing sucks and I’m sorry that you have to go through you. But, you don’t have to go through it alone, dude. Any of us are here to listen. We just want you- I don’t know. We’re just worried. I know that it must hu-” 

Stiles wheels around, glaring at Scott. “No, Scott. You  _ don’t fucking know. _ You have no clue what it’s like,” Stiles tosses the sleeping bags away, but keeps the bottle in his hand, “every single thing reminds me of her. My dad is a shell of a man. And he fucking pretends like everything is okay. He tries to smile and be happy but he’s so fucking broken. And what can I do for him? What can I do to take that pain away? What can I do? What could I have done?” Stiles steps closer to Scott, point with the hand holding the whiskey, the liquid sloshing as he gestures, “No amount of research did anything! The one fucking thing I can do in life was useless! I couldn’t help! I can’t help my dad, I couldn’t help my mom, and I sure as hell can’t help myself! I’m fucking useless! And she’s just gone. And there’s nothing I can do to change that!” Stiles takes a staggering step back, gasping raggedly. He turns, leaning his weight against the Jeep. He slides down the side, his back against the wheel. He sits on the ground, chest heaving as he tries to breathe. He’s not sure where the bottle of whiskey is. He must have dropped it. He hopes it didn’t break. 

Suddenly, Stiles realizes he can’t feel his lips. They’ve gone all tingly and numb. He gasps again, trying to suck more air in, but that doesn’t help. Panic mounts in his chest and he scrabbles at the ground, trying to find purchase, trying to ground himself. He hears some clattering next to him and suddenly Scott’s face is right beside him. 

“Breathe,” Scott’s voice fades in and out as Stiles gasps for breath,”-ith me. In ou-” Stiles grabs Scott’s arm in a vice grip, trying to use him as an anchor. “-ome on. That’s better. A couple more, just like tha-” Stiles chest heaves and he squeezes his eyes closed, leaning his head against the hubcap. “In and out. You can do it, Stiles. Just breathe with me.” 

“Scott,” Stiles wheezes, having vague control over his breath, “fuck off!” Scott chuckles softly but scoots back a little, as far as he can with Stiles’ hand still a vice grip on his arm.

“Alright. Fine. We don’t have to talk about it. Not tonight. We can set up the tent and get drunk off our asses. Okay?” 

“Please,” Stiles whispers. 

-

At some point, Stiles sits down with his dad. They’re at the dining table. They don’t talk at first. They just sit there in contemplative silence. It’s late and they should both be in bed asleep. Dad is feigning like he’s working, papers spread out around him. 

At some point, Stiles starts talking. He just opens his mouth and the words spill out. Every thought, every feeling, everything he’s kept inside since she died. He tells Dad about the pain, about the anger, about the rage, about the sadness, about the emptiness. Dad sits and listens, his eyes wet. Stiles can’t stop himself. Everything spills out, like a dam that has broken. 

At some point, Stiles stops talking. He doesn’t have anything left to say. If he did try to keep talking he’d just repeat over and over how unfair this whole thing is. They sit there in silence again for a while. Dad reaches over to pour himself another glass of scotch but Stiles grabs the bottle first. Dad whispers a thank you. 

At some point, Dad starts talking. He starts quietly. More whispers about how he misses her too. And then it’s like Dad’s dam breaks. He tells Stiles that he feels the exact same way. He tells Stiles that he’s going through the same pain, the same anger, the same rage, the same sadness, the same emptiness. 

At some point, it clicks for Stiles. It’s not that he thought his father wasn’t grieving… But finally, he understands that this man, this broken, weary man, knows exactly what Stiles is going through. In fact, he’s the only person on this planet who knows. 

At some point, Stiles says, “I love you, Dad.”

At some point, Dad says, “I love you too, Stiles.” 

-

It’s embarrassing. It is. Melissa McCall is trying really hard to hide the pitying look on her face. Dad hasn’t come out of the living room. Scott won’t make eye contact with Stiles. 

“Are you sure-”

“Yes,” Stiles says, pushing the bag towards Mrs. McCall, “Dad and I talked about this. That night I took Scott camping, it wasn’t…” Stiles pauses, looking down at the floor, “it wasn’t the first time I stole liquor from Dad. So, can you just…” 

“Of course, Stiles. Whatever you guys think is necessary. Scott and I will help any way we can.” 

And without much more ceremony Mrs. McCall and Scott are leaving, with a bag full of liquor bottles. Dad finally comes into the kitchen. He sighs heavily. 

“This is for the best,” he says, “for the both of us.” Stiles isn’t sure who Dad is trying to convince. 

-

It’s been eight months. Eight months of grief. Eight months and people have gone back to normal. Mostly. 

-

They’re sitting at lunch. Stiles has eaten as much as he can. Appetite is a fickle thing, he thinks to himself. Psychosomatic, he also thinks to himself. Lydia is talking and Stiles isn’t shocked anymore that he doesn’t hang off her every word. He should start paying attention though.” 

“And I’m just annoyed,” Lydia huffs, flicking her hair over her shoulder, a motion that would’ve capsized Stile’s world before, “I think it’s time for me to take a vacation from my mother.” 

It’s like someone sucks all the air out from the table. Eyes flicker to Stiles. Allison smacks Lydia’s shoulder and mutters angrily to her. Lydia gives a very sorry look to Stiles. 

“Guys, it’s fine,” Stiles huffs, looking down at his tray. Lydia’s comment didn’t even bother him. Why should he care that she’s fighting with her mom? Why should he care that she still has a mom to fight with? 

And there it is.

Stiles understands why they’re all so concerned. But really, it doesn’t debilitate him. Using the word Mom is going to kill him. It’s not going to send him to a corner, sobbing wildly. 

They’ve gone back to talking. They’ve moved on from Lydia’s complaining. They’re talking about… something. Stiles’ doesn’t really want to focus on it. Scott kicks his shin under the table. Stiles looks up to find Scott’s ‘are you okay’ look plastered on his face. Stiles shrugs. Scott throws a tater tot at him and it makes Stiles chuckle. 

-

Stiles will never be over it. Stiles will never have a time where he’s able to think about his mom without it hurting a little. It doesn’t make him feel like he has a gaping wound in his chest anymore, but it’ll always hurt. 

And Dad doesn’t pretend to be interested in whatever’s on the TV anymore. He grumbles about stupid reality shows, gets vocal about the sports. Stiles even had Mrs. McCall bring back the liquor bag. Dad hasn’t even touched it. He did have a beer though. Stiles knows that for sure. He went to a bar with Parrish after his shift and they had a beer together. 

So, yeah, it’s always going to fucking suck. 

But Stiles likes to remember the good stuff too. 

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on Tumblr [@ira-fae](https://ira-fae.tumblr.com/)


End file.
